Touching Your Hands Make Me Feel At Home And Lost At The Same Time. I Will Never Know Which One I Like

“I don’t want you to go.”

Russell Lee. Movie theater. Southside, Chicago, Illinois. 1941

Lindsay C. Gibson, Adult Children of Emotionally Immature Parents

A favourite , always !

“And once the storm is over, you won’t remember how you made it through, how you managed to survive. You won’t even be sure, whether the storm is really over. But one thing is certain. When you come out of the storm, you won’t be the same person who walked in. That’s what this storm’s all about.”

— Haruki Murakami

View with a Grain of Sand: Selected Poems; ‘Water’ by Wisława Szymborska tr. Stanislaw Baranczak and Clare Cavanagh

[ID: How light the raindrop’s contents are. /How gently the world touches me.]

Self-Portrait Against Red Wallpaper

by Richard Siken

Close the blinds and kill the birds, I surrender my desire for a logical culmination. I surrender my desire to be healed. The blurriness of being alive. Take it or leave it, and for the most part you take it. Not just the idea of it but the ramifications of it. People love to hate themselves, avoiding the necessary recalibrations. Shame comes from vanity. Shame means you’re guilty, like the rest of us, but you think you’re better than we are. Maybe you are. What would a better me paint? There is no new me, there is no old me, there’s just me, the same me, the whole time. Vanity, vanity, forcing your will on the world. Don’t try to make a stronger wind, you’ll wear yourself out. Build a better sail. You want to solve something? Get out of your own way. What’s the difference between me and the world? Compartmentalization. The world doesn’t know what to do with my love. Because it isn’t used to being loved. It’s a framework problem. Disheartening? Obviously. I hope it’s love. I’m trying really hard to make it love. I said no more severity. I said it severely and slept through all my appointments. I clawed my way into the light but the light is just as scary. I’d rather quit. I’d rather be sad. It’s too much work. Admirable? Not really. I hate my friends. And when I hate my friends I’ve failed myself, failed to share my compassion. I shine a light on them of my own making: septic, ugly, the wrong yellow. I mean, maybe it’s better if my opponent wins.

Akshay Vasu / Carel Fabritius / Anjum Choudhary / Franz Kafka / Charles Bukowski / Frederick Carl Frieseke / Ray Bradbury

sky by Vincent Van Gogh

What inspires you to express pain so well through words?

Pain